As the cold front pushed in and the rain blew sideways and summer flew away, I found myself sitting on the bench in front of Floyd Lawson’s barber shop and thinking, “I probably shouldn’t have watched so much TV when I was a kid.”

These days, I hardly watch any.

Far too depressing, when it’s the news that “matters.”

Far too insulting, when it’s one of the “reality” shows.

Far too insipid, when it’s all about the “new” music.

No, mostly I’m a radio guy and, with the baseball playoffs just gearing up, I’m content to sit on my lawn chair in the driveway, a red-and-white cooler at my feet, the night sky showing off its stars like Marilyn Monroe in a low-plunging sequined gown.

I suppose that makes me old-fashioned, but I don’t care.

Television, with all those 260 channels, is bad for my health, so I steer clear of it; well, unless Notre Dame is playing football, then I stop what I’m doing -- cleaning the garage or grilling burgers or reading a book like Roger Kahn’s “October Men” -- and make time to watch my alma mater lose.

Or win, which is always a shock.

The other night, then, after ND had beaten Purdue in stunningly easy fashion, I stepped outside for a minute or two and noticed that instead of being warmish, it was downright chilly.

Fall had arrived and somehow, I’d missed its return.

“Sweater weather” is the term I’d use, though it’s not an original thought.

“Carolina Tweener” is another one, which I did make up.

So now, we’re on a crash course with winter, which, naturally, isn’t pleasant for my wife.

“I was thinking,” she said, the next afternoon as I listened to the Yankees lose to the Tigers.

“Hmmn,” I said, wondering if Joe Girardi has the sense God gave to a gopher.

“Maybe we could go someplace warm.”

“Sure,” I said, thinking if the Yankees can’t hit with runners in scoring position, this is going to be a very short post-season.

“Maybe the Bahamas,” she said.

That got my attention.

“Um,” I said. “When?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Soon.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to think about winter.”

“So don’t,” I said, watching another rally fizzle.

She pulled the blanket she’d been wrapped in tighter.

“It’s getting colder,” she said.

Now, at this point in the conversation, I had two choices.

Either I could be snarky ... or sympathetic.

“I know,” I said, walking a tight line between my options, “but it’ll warm up again. It always does.”

Which is true.

This marks the end of our 12th summer down here and, if there’s one lesson I’ve learned, the Crystal Coast always has a surprise or two waiting before Halloween.

That brings us back to the bench outside Floyd’s tonsorial parlor.

Almost all my life, I’ve considered “The Andy Griffith Show” to be among the finest TV shows ever created, right in the mix with “M*A*S*H,” “All in the Family,” “The Dick Van Dyke Show” and “The Honeymooners.” It has it all: memorable characters, crisp writing, excellent acting and, best of all, a sense of laughing at itself even as it’s telling the truth about life.

“Everyone complains about the weather,” Floyd says, and I’m right there, sitting between him and Sheriff Taylor. “And no one does anything about it.”

Andy nods as pedestrians stroll up the Main Street.

“Know who said that?” asks Floyd.

Andy stays silent, just watching as the world passes by.

“Calvin Coolidge,” says Floyd, answering his own question.

Incorrectly.

“No, Floyd,” Andy says, pleasantly but firmly. “It was Mark Twain that said that.”

Floyd looks crestfallen for a moment, befuddled, but then he recovers.

“Well,” he says, in one of the great non sequiturs in sitcom history, “what did Calvin Coolidge say?”

I can’t help myself when I think of that line, especially when I imagine myself on that same bench, savoring small-town life and its peculiar and reassuring rhythms.

I always laugh.

Andy and Floyd, Barney and Otis, Helen and Thelma Lou, Gomer and Goober, Opie and Aunt Bee ... they made Mayberry special: a place unfettered by progress, unsullied by urban sprawl, unspoiled by crimes of passion and lust and greed.

True, it’s as fictional as Gilligan’s Island or 211 Pine Street, home of the Cleavers.

But Mayberry, despite its lack of married couples -- I mean, no one in that town has a spouse, when you think about it -- always seemed such a nice, laid-back place.

Still, it’s not real.

And winter most definitely is.

But that leaves us with autumn and that means lots of possibilities.

My advice to you, to paraphrase John Belushi in “Animal House,” is to start living heavily.

Go places.

Do things.

Enjoy yourself.

But pack some sweaters when you hit the highway.

You never know when another cold front is going to blow in, trying to spoil your fun.